One main conclusion of the preceding chapter was that Ulysses is deeply concerned with the complex interrelations of national identity and shame. In his valuable examination of Irish identity in the Irish literary revival, G. J. Watson suggests the same point when he writes that “the origins of Joyce’s art, which is frequently seen as proud and arrogant in its highly individual techniques and apparently encyclopaedic claims, lie in a deep sense of cultural inferiority which Joyce feels is the Irishman’s heritage” (153). However, the connection between shame and social identity is not confined to nationality. It extends to ethnic, sexual, and other categories when these are in the right sort of social relations. Just as British colonialism fosters shame over Irishness, anti-Semitism tends to provoke shame over being Jewish and misogyny fosters shame over aspects of being a woman or being feminine. All three forms of social prejudice and social shame figure importantly in Ulysses. Thus, in “Nausicaa,” we find Bloom thinking he is ugly because of his profile (13.836-837), presumably because of his “Jewish” nose. Gerty herself is clearly ashamed of the ordinary bodily functions that are part of being a woman—so much that she goes to confession to report having a menstrual period as if that were a sin. Then, even in the darkness of the confessional, she finds herself “crimsoning up to the roots of her hair.”
Unsurprisingly, social identity is not the only form of identity to which Joyce attends. When Stephen recollects his grammar school experiences, he reflects, “I am another now and yet the same.” Later, he shifts his view on the sameness, reflecting that the continual change in his body actually makes him a different person. This has salutary consequences with respect to indebtedness. Because he is no longer the same person who took a particular loan (in this case, to the author and social activist, AE), he can hardly be held accountable for the debt (“I am other I now. Other I got pound”). Similarly, Bloom recalls happy moments of his marriage a decade earlier, thinking “I was happier then.” But he subsequently questions that reflection—not the emotional part (i.e., not the greater happiness), but the identity part: “Or was that I? Or am I now I?” At another place, the narrator describes an action as performed by “haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom.” This in effect characterizes Bloom as different persons, not across time, but across social contexts.
Nor are denigrated social identities the only source of shame. Most obviously, alterations in personal identity are not emotionally neutral. Slightly after the passage cited earlier, Bloom continues to reflect on his prior happiness, particularly the joyous early period of his relationship with Molly. He sums up the difference by recalling how “she kissed me.” He then contrasts the “me” that she kissed with his present self: “Me. And me now.” Though subdued, there is a clear hint of shame in Bloom’s assessment of his current identity. This hint is particularly recognizable when one recalls that Bloom has not had ordinary sexual relations with his wife since the death of their son, Rudy, for which he blames himself. Thinking of Rudy’s death, he reflects, “If it’s healthy it’s from the mother. If not from the man.” That decade-long abstinence has led to Molly’s infidelity. Bloom is ashamed on both counts.
Moreover, even that does not exhaust the catalogue of relevant forms of identity and shame. When part of a denigrated group, one can experience shame at being identified as a member of the group, but one may also experience shame after denying one’s membership in the group. Thus Bloom repeatedly feels shame over not really being Jewish. The point is explicit in “Ithaca” when, thinking of his father, Bloom “experience[s] a sentiment of remorse … [b]ecause in immature impatience he had treated with disrespect certain beliefs and practices” of Jewish tradition. He repeatedly recalls John Daly’s Leah the Forsaken, a “translation and adaptation” of Salomon Mosenthal’s Deborah (Gifford and Seidman for 5.194-195). Bloom is particularly concerned with the critical scene in which Abraham reveals that Nathan “left his father to die of grief” and “left the house of his father and left the God of his father” (as Bloom recalls it). The feelings are, of course, bound up with real attachment relations, including Bloom’s sense of guilt over his father’s suicide.1 This is presumably why the ghost of Bloom’s father appears in “Circe” to accuse Bloom of having “left the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham and Jacob.” Unsurprisingly, the concerns extend in the other direction as well, to Bloom’s children. In “Circe,” he has a brief vision of what his dead son, Rudy (named for Bloom’s father), could have been. He envisions the boy reading from right to left (15.4959). The suggestion is that he is reading Hebrew, that—had he lived—he would have returned to Jewish custom.
But this is not simply a matter of isolated acts, things he has done for which he might feel guilt. It is a matter of what he is and how his behavior relates to that identity and thereby to shame. This complexity is suggested by Bloom’s brief allusion to another Mosenthal work, La Juive (The Jewess), about a Jewish woman named Rachel (see 5.200 on Bloom’s confusion here). In that play, Rachel is seduced by Prince Leopold, who has pretended to be a Jew. Rachel initially accuses the prince of misconduct, but then saves his life by claiming the accusation was a lie. Rachel’s claims about Leopold’s misconduct form one source for Bloom’s paranoid fantasies in “Circe” (as do the scenes of Christian attacks on Jews). The implied identification of Bloom with his namesake (the prince Leopold) suggests Bloom’s confusion over whether he should or should not judge himself to be Jewish, whether he is pretending to be a Jew or pretending not to be a Jew. It seems clear that Bloom feels as much shame over not being Jewish enough as he does over being Jewish at all.
Needless to say, shame is not the only emotion at stake in identity categorizations. Most obviously, there is pride as well, and in some cases anger. Bloom worries that Reuben J. Dodd is a “dirty Jew” and seems to give credence to the story that a group of Jews kidnapped and sacrificed a Christian child (6.771-772). But he takes pride in sharing ethnicity with Mendelssohn, Marx, and Spinoza (12.1804). On the other hand, even this is ambivalent. Mendelssohn, Marx, and Spinoza did not follow Jewish tradition. The Mendelssohns, like the Blooms, converted to Christianity (and changed their name); Marx, also like Bloom, was an atheist; Spinoza was excommunicated (see Gifford and Seidman for 12.1804).
We find a similar ambivalence in Gerty. She is abashed by the biology of being a woman. But she is “a votary of dame fashion” and draws much of her (fragile) self-esteem from her femininity. She also takes the Blessed Virgin as a model for imagining herself as an object of worship (see 13.564). More practically, she takes the feminist view that there should be women priests (13.710–13.711).
Clearly, there is considerable complexity in social and individual identity and in the relation of both to emotion, particularly shame and pride. The following discussion sets out to describe and explain some of these complexities in a systematic manner. To do this, it begins by trying to sort out the various meanings of identity.
Probably the most obvious division in types of identity is that between group identity and individual or personal identity. For example, Stephen’s group identities include being Irish, male, and perhaps Catholic. Bloom’s group identities include being Irish, Jewish, and male. Gerty’s include being Irish, Catholic, and female. They also may include being disabled. In contrast, Stephen’s, Bloom’s, and Gerty’s personal identities include having a particular biological history, particular memories, and so on.
There are complexities in both group and individual identity, great complexities that are largely ignored in discussions of identity. However, an in some ways more important, a less recognized division is that between categorial and practical identity. Categorial identity is a form of group identity—the fundamental form, in terms of social consequence. It is simply the definition of one’s identity by the application of a particular label. When I spoke of Stephen as being Irish and male, I was referring to the application of identity categories to Stephen.
In contrast with categorial identity, practical identity is the set of dispositions and competencies that are part of one’s personal identity, but that also mediate various people’s personal identities, thus integrating them into larger social relations. A simple example is language. One’s competence in, say, English is a mental competence, a matter of having a certain set of internal rules that, for instance, lead one to form regular plurals in a particular way. At the same time, that internal, thus personal competence is part of what allows one to interact with other people in speaking, listening, reading, and writing. An even simpler example is driving. I internally know to drive on the right side of the road (being American). Other drivers have the same internal, personal competence. That allows us to integrate our relations with one another—for example, when we are driving in opposite directions on the same road.
Despite the suggestions of these examples, it is important to note that even coordinated practical identities are not always the same across individuals. Most significantly, they are often complementary. When complementary, their operation is often referred to as “socially distributed cognition” (see, for example, Hutchins). For example, in my department, faculty members are in charge of giving academic advice to students. This includes deciding what constitutes a “related” area of study.2 The administrative assistant in charge of advising, not an English PhD, would probably not be able to make these sorts of determination. However, she knows the official rules regarding which courses can and cannot count toward a related field, as well as esoteric rules about “double” versus “dual” majors. Neither she nor I can judge aspects of a student’s second major. In the case of language and driving, we are able to interact because of similarity in our practical identities. In the case of advising, however, we are able to produce the socially desired result (getting students to graduate) because our practical identities are complementary, thus different.
Even from this brief account, it should be clear that the distinction between practical and categorial identity is important. Specifically, there is a common, but implicit assumption that group identity is continuous across category and practice. Sometimes, writers and political activists acknowledge that there are different group identities (Amartya Sen, for example, discusses this at length). However, this only means that someone may be, for example, both Jewish and Irish. In the terms of the present analysis, it means that someone may have different categorial identities. In many ways the more theoretically important disjunctions occur between categorial and practical identities.
Specifically, categorial and practical identities are not aligned in any simple way. First, to a great extent, the functioning of practical identities within a group relies on distributed cognition, thus a great deal of difference. Second, and more significantly, there is often not even this sort of complementary or distributed alignment in the most socially consequential forms of identity categorization. Rather, what alignment we do find is often trivial, a mere function of the definition of the category. For example, the category “Irish speaker” applies only to people who speak Irish. However, the national or ethnic category “Irish” is far from entailing a practical identity that includes competence in Irish language. We see this, for example, in the old milk-woman, who mistakes Haines’s Irish for French (1.425). Indeed, Stephen’s reflections on this old woman as a representation of Ireland (1.403) suggest this is not some rare exception. Rather, there is a widespread disjunction between categorial and practical identity in this case. Conversely, “English” may be seen, in Ireland in 1904, as a sort of categorial antithesis to “Irish.” However, it does not follow that someone with an English categorial identity cannot speak Irish, as the case of Haines indicates.
Indeed, Ulysses is in many ways a work that insists on the separation between categorial and practical identity. For example, Bloom is, of course, a man, thus a husband and a father. However, in some ways, his practical identity is that of a wife or mother. Like the stereotypical, long-suffering wife, he turns a blind eye to his spouse’s infidelity. He also admires her professional accomplishments (see, for example, 17.1180)—a point that may seem banal now, but was rather against common gender conventions at the time. When he meets Stephen, his main concern is to feed the boy and to provide him with clothing and a home, traditionally “female” and “maternal” attitudes. In keeping with this, Bloom’s dreamlike fancies in “Circe” involve the concern—perhaps desire—that he is a “womanly man,” and the Citizen actually questions his gender characterization (“‘Do you call that a man?’ says the citizen”). Similarly, in Irish society, one could imagine Haines not being accepted as a “real Irish speaker” by Irish nationalists. Conversely, some English nationalists may be disturbed by Haines’s learning of Irish and not count him as “really English”—or, indeed, some Irish nationalists, pleased by his enthusiasm for Irish, may deny that he is “really English.”
When writers fail to draw this fundamental distinction between practical and categorial, they implicitly tend to treat practical and categorial identity as if they were the same thing. This, in my view, leads to confusion. For example, there is a common idea in postcolonial studies, derived from Homi Bhabha, that all identity is necessarily “hybrid,” a mix of different traditions. This is a problematic notion for several reasons (e.g., it does not distinguish cultural mixing that is the product of coercion or hegemony from cultural mixing that is the product of free exchange). But, from the present point of view, it is most significant that the idea of hybridity has no relevance whatsoever to categorial identity, only to practical identity. This is important because categorial identity is generally what is politically crucial. For example, racism is not based on practical identity (which is perhaps always hybrid in some rather trivial sense). It is based on categorial identity.
Similarly, Judith Butler has famously maintained that one’s behavior does not derive from a previous identity. Rather, it performs an identity that does not exist prior to the performance (see Gender 171–180). Butler—in my view rightly—opposes the imposition of identities as involving “regulatory regimes” (“Imitation” 13). Indeed, in the next section, we will consider just how categorial identities are bound up with such regulation. Moreover, it is undoubtedly clear that we do in some sense “perform” our (putative) identities. Buck Mulligan provides some striking cases of this, as we saw in the preceding chapter. However, to a great extent, our current “performances” of gender or other identities are based on our current practical identities. Stephen’s practical identity does not include putting on eyebrowleine, despite Madame Vera Verity’s insistence on its “haunting” effects. In contrast, Gerty’s practical identity does involve this (13.109–13.113). On June 16, 1904, these are not simply performances. They are expressions of practical identity. Does this mean they are necessary because of Stephen being male and Gerty being female? No, of course not. Rather, Stephen has been brought up in such a way that applying eyebrowleine is not part of his practical identity. This is because he was categorized as “male.” The reverse holds for Gerty, who was categorized as “female.” In this sense, there is arbitrariness. However, it simply confuses the issue to say there is performance only without prior disposition—even if the disposition is not a simple product of nature, but results from processes of social categorization (here as “male” or “female”). These points about eyebrowleine further illustrate the practical/categorial division. But they also suggest some sort of relation between the two. To understand the complexity of practical/categorial interrelations, we need to consider the operation of both categorial and practical identity in greater detail.
Again, group identity is first of all or fundamentally categorial identity. This is because, insofar as they are socially functional, our group divisions are a matter of assigning identity categories. Identity categories define what social psychologists refer to as in-groups and out-groups. In-groups are simply sets of individuals with whom a subject shares an identity category. Research in social psychology has established that in-group/out-group divisions have significant, systematic consequences for one’s evaluation of individuals. Moreover, such group divisions are quite easy to establish. Even arbitrarily defined groups—for instance, groups defined by the penultimate digit of one’s social security number—alter test subjects’ views of individuals. When arbitrarily assigned to groups, test subjects evaluate the personalities and behavior of in-group members more positively than those of out-group members, even when they have not had a chance to interact with the people in question. Moreover, when rewards are offered, people often concentrate on the relation between in-group and out-group rewards rather than the absolute level of rewards. For example, many people will choose to receive less reward in absolute terms if their group can have greater relative reward in comparison with the out-group (Duckitt 68-69).
In short, our judgments of value as well as our reward preferences are strongly affected by in-group/out-group divisions. These group-defined preferences may outweigh egocentric calculations of benefit. Moreover, this is not a matter of, say, attachment inhibiting self-serving impulses (as when parents sacrifice for offspring). Rather, these biasing effects occur even when members of the in-group are strangers and the groups are explicitly determined in a random manner.
Of course, in real social circumstances (as opposed to psychology experiments), in-groups and out-groups are apparently not arbitrary. Specifically, any arbitrariness is not explicit or self-evident. Such groups are defined by socially prominent identity categories—national, racial, religious, and so on. These divisions have the consequences just noted, but with some differences. First, there is often an association of identity categories with socially dominant and subordinated groups. In other words, there is always in-group preference against out-groups. However, in a given society, it may happen that one group is objectively dominant—in wealth, political authority, and/or cultural prestige—over other groups. This social group hierarchization may complicate and/or intensify the effects of identity group division.
Even independent of hierarchization, the effects of identity categorization are likely to increase to the degree that the categories in question are salient, enduring, emotionally charged, socially functional, and part of limited oppositions.3 Thus the penultimate digit of one’s social security number is likely to be only a very weak category for group definition. In contrast, in the U.S. race is likely to be strong. Specifically, the penultimate digit of one’s social security number is not particularly salient; it may in principle be changed; it is unlikely to have any emotional resonance; it is not, in itself, socially functional (i.e., the entire social security number is consequential, but the penultimate digit itself is not); and it is opposed to nine other numbers. In contrast, race in the U.S. is salient (since the key racial division is a function of skin color), enduring, emotionally charged, and socially functional (e.g., in having consequences for employment). It is also, as a matter of fact, part of limited oppositions. In some contexts, the main social opposition is white/non-white; in others, it is in effect non-black/black.
As the final point suggests, identity group divisions are not entirely straightforward. They require some criterion for group inclusion, something that defines a person as a member of one or another identity group. However, such an inclusion criterion is often rather abstract and thus difficult to apply in practice. Thus, in addition to such an inclusion principle, identity categorization typically involves some sort of pragmatic identification markers. In practice, the pragmatic identification markers may be more socially consequential than the actual inclusion criterion—at least in part because they tend to be more salient, emotionally charged, and functional. (Moreover, they may be more “real” than the actual inclusion criteria, since the latter may make reference to what are in effect mythic entities, such as racial origins.) For example, the inclusion criteria for the categories “English” and “Irish” would presumably be a matter of ancestry. However, members would be pragmatically isolated by reference to a series of more concrete properties, such as linguistic accent and idiom.
Pragmatic markers of an identity category come to have special functional significance and emotional consequence in the context of social hierarchies. Specifically, they come to be viewed prominently as signals of one’s place in a social hierarchy. As such, they tend to be strongly associated with emotions of social evaluation. Thus they may be linked with shame when seen as markers of social inferiority and with pride when seen as markers of social superiority. These markers then become important in political responses to social hierarchies.
One such political response is “identity styling” (the self-conscious, performative adoption of some social identity; see chapter six of Coupland). It is widely recognized that members of some denigrated social groups imitate the dominant group. For example, some people in European colonies imitated European customs. This is in part a matter of practical identity. However, it is also a matter of pragmatic identification markers. “Mimeticism,” as it is called, is first of all an attempt to rid oneself of the features used to identify members of the dominated group—features such as accent, clothing, or table manners. This is what we at least appear to see in the case of Buck Mulligan.
Conversely, it is clear that some members of denigrated identity groups engage in a thoroughgoing, sometimes confrontational affirmation of (what they take to be) social practices of their own dominated group. Thus, alongside mimeticism—indeed, often following mimeticism—we find some people in colonized societies affirming some “indigenous” practices with a severity that would have been unknown to members of that society before colonialism. This “reactionary traditionalism” commonly involves practical identity. However, it too may be initiated in an affirmation of the sometimes rather superficial aspects of the culture that contribute identification markers. Dress is, again, a case of this sort, with some forms of distinctive, traditional (or sometimes only pseudo-traditional) clothing characterized as deeply important by, for example, nationalist politicians.
As the reference to nationalist politicians suggests, not all aspects of group division are spontaneous, part of ordinary social dynamics. Different sorts of group division may arise spontaneously. Since we all belong to many groups and these change in salience and functionality depending on context, we would expect spontaneous identity categorization to be rather fluid. This is to some extent the case. But identity categorization and group division also have a great deal of stability, with some identity categories having particular importance (such as race in the U.S.). This is due in part to the influence of political organizations. Social and political activists— colonialist, anticolonialist, and so on—appeal to identity categories, fostering particular sorts of identity categorization. For example, nationalists appeal to national categories (enhancing salience), advocate nationalist policies (advancing the functional consequences of nationality), proclaim the history of the nation (making it at least appear enduring), and so on.
Inclusion and identification criteria are not adequate for the purposes of nationalist or other movements. Thus activists tend to formulate norms for group behavior as well. Such norms may arise through spontaneous group dynamics. However, they develop more readily when there is at least some involvement of activists. Specifically, there are two sorts of norms that enter here—roughly, those bearing on attitudes and those bearing on actions. The norms bearing on attitudes largely reduce to loyalty to the group and attachment to what is associated with the group (e.g., the land, in the case of nationalism). Norms of practice involve establishing a set of principles indicating what the proper skills and routines will be for members of the in-group. Language and clothing provide clear examples. The Irish national movement elevated knowledge of Irish, not as a criterion for being Irish, but rather as a norm for Irish practical identity. Similarly, many national movements have advocated national clothing, at least in some token fashion. If nothing else, this serves to make the identity category more salient. In the case of dominated groups, this also suggests an affirmation of pride rather than an acceptance of shame.
We can now see how Haines could potentially be characterized as not “really” English. He satisfies the inclusion and identification criteria for being English. However, for some English nationalists, his enthusiasm for the Irish language could be seen as violating loyalty and his pursuit of Irish studies could be viewed as the cultivation of a non-English practical identity. Conversely, some Irish may accept him as Irish because they see him as cultivating the normative practical identity (e.g., speaking Irish), despite his background and English accent.
A more interesting case is that of Stephen. He is almost certainly understood (at least implicitly) by those around him as, in some sense, Catholic. He does not satisfy the inclusion criterion, since he has rejected Catholicism. Nor does he conform to pragmatic criteria by, for example, going to mass. But, unlike Haines, he also does not adhere to norms. What then makes him socially Catholic?
To clarify cases of this sort, we need to introduce three other aspects of identity definition—first, the interrelation of identity categories; second, the prototype-based nature of inclusion criteria and pragmatic markers; third, the minimal and negative quality of such criteria and markers. We may begin with the interrelation of identity categories. In speaking of Irish literature, the obvious national identity categories are “English” and “Irish.” In some contexts, certainly, that would be the operative division. However, in other contexts, the division would be between “Anglo-Irish” and “Irish Irish” (on this division see chapter three of Lyons, Culture; see also Watson). The terms here are fairly self-explanatory. The Anglo-Irish were Irish by birth and (putatively) English by ancestry, whereas the Irish Irish were Irish by birth and (putatively) Irish by ancestry. There was a statistical correlation between Anglo-Irishness and Protestantism, on the one hand, and between Irish Irishness and Catholicism on the other. One consequence of this was that one’s religious categorization would affect common views of one’s ethno-national categorization and vice versa. Thus a Protestant would be more likely to be seen as Anglo-Irish—or at least as not (“really”) Irish Irish—whatever his or her ancestry.
However, this does not yet fully explain Stephen’s case. His putative Catholicism is also in part a matter of the prototype-based nature of inclusion criteria. The key point here is that there are better and worse instances of an identity category. Inclusion is not a simple matter of yes or no defined by necessary and sufficient conditions. Put differently, the inclusion criteria may be understood as complexes that may be partially or wholly satisfied. Moreover, those complexes are often bound up with the interrelation of identity categories. In the case of the category “Catholic,” for example, practicing Catholicism and believing in Catholic doctrine would be among the inclusion criteria. However, in the social context of Ireland in 1904, the relevant prototype—at least for Irish nationalists—would not simply be Catholic, but (roughly) Irish Irish Catholic. Moreover, this would be opposed first of all to Anglo-Irish Protestant. Thus there would be other inclusion criteria operating in practice (if not in acknowledged principle). These would include a continuous lineage of familial Catholicism. Indeed, in that social context, being from a Catholic family may be more important than practicing Catholicism. This is due to the integration (in the prototype) of the religious category (to which ancestry should be irrelevant) and the ethno-nationalist category (for which ancestry is central). This valuing of ancestry is particularly likely to occur when the national category is the key or dominant category. In any such interrelation, one of the categories might in effect serve the interests of the other. In the case of Irish nationalism, Catholicism is likely to have that subordinate role. Thus some (Catholic) Irish nationalists might consider an apostate from a Catholic family, such as Stephen, to be Catholic, if he or she satisfies an adequate number of criteria (e.g., being Irish Irish and being from a Catholic family).
Of course, this would not continue if the apostate actually converted to Protestantism. That would involve satisfaction of key criteria for the opposed prototype. Moreover, conversion would count as a betrayal. Some Irish Catholic nationalists would probably treat such a convert with particular antagonism. Due to the opposition of prototypes, a key feature of being Catholic is likely to be “not being Protestant.” This too is the case with Stephen. This is an instance of the minimal and negative property of inclusion. In some contexts, at least, any person will by default be classed as a member of one group as long as there is no positive reason to class him or her in the other group. Thus being in group A becomes primarily a matter of not being in group B. In this respect, Stephen’s being Catholic is to a great extent a matter of his not being Protestant. Such a default can go in either direction, depending on context.
Gerty’s case is revealing as well. There are several identity categories that bear on Gerty, including gender and religion. But perhaps the most theoretically interesting is disability. Bloom labels her “lame,” in tacit opposition to himself as the “normal” observer. That categorization—which would undoubtedly be socially ubiquitous—will have at least as strong group-defining effects as “the penultimate digit of her social security number is different from mine.” The identity-defining operation of the categorization is suggested by Bloom’s comparison of her with a “negress” precisely insofar as she is disabled, a point that clearly links her with more standard identity categories. Moreover, it seems clear that this categorial identification is highly socially consequential (for example, in relation to her marriage prospects). As this suggests—and as should already have been obvious from the research cited earlier—a category does not have to be explicitly understood as identity defining in order to have strong in-group/out-group effects.
The final point to make about identity categories is that they are commonly imposed on a subject by society or some segment of society (i.e., they are not discovered by introspection). We may refer to this as category attribution. Category attribution almost always has some effect on one’s self-understanding. However, it need not be determinative. Thus we may distinguish between category attribution, on the one hand, and categorial identification, on the other. Gerty may or may not consider herself to be “lame.” Thus she may or may not identify with that category, even if it is explicitly attributed to her. On the other hand, even having an implicit sense of this attribution would be likely to foster self-consciousness about her condition, perhaps inhibiting her behavior (in order to limit the exposure of her limp). In addition, she may experience a certain degree of shame, even if she rejects the categorization.
This reference to shame returns us to the topic of emotion. Again, the key emotions involved in categorial identity are, first of all, category-based pride and category-based shame. Category-based pride is a concomitant of in-group membership and is found for both dominant and dominated groups. Given the nature of identity group bias, it seems clear that category-based shame is not spontaneous. It appears to derive from the category-based disdain or, worse, disgust that can occur across identity-group divisions,4 particularly when that feeling is intensified and seemingly justified by social hierarchization. More exactly, it seems unlikely that two arbitrary groups will develop very strong disdain for one another, not to mind disgust with one another, due simply to category division. However, when such groups are put in a social hierarchy—as in Zimbardo’s famous prison experiment—disdain and disgust seem to grow on one side and shame seems to grow on the other. In Zimbardo’s study, one group of test subjects was arbitrarily assigned the role of prison guards. Another group was arbitrarily assigned the role of inmates. The well-known results included not only the development of “sadism” on the part of the guards, but also the development of “shame” on the part of the inmate group (see Zimbardo 189).5
A distinct form of shame is derived not from the attitudes of the (dominant) out-group, but from in-group responsibility for the suffering of the (dominated) out-group. We find a case of this sort in Haines. As noted in chapter one, Haines responds “calmly” to Stephen’s denunciation of the imperial British state and admits that “We feel in England that we have treated you rather unfairly.” The comment is hardly a harsh self-condemnation. But it may suggest a degree of shame over in-group (here, English) mistreatment of the out-group (here, the Irish). This may in turn hint that Haines’s enthusiasm for Irish studies is, in part, compensatory. There is a further indication of this in “Circe.” Haines appears carrying “a portfolio full of Celtic literature” and speaking Hiberno-English. Indeed, at several points, he appears to be literally translating from Irish (as indicated in Gifford and Seidman’s notes). Thus he becomes a striking example of mimeticism, though mimeticism from the dominant to the dominated group. The crucial point for our purposes is that he associates “My hell” with “Ireland’s” and connects both with “my crime,” which he has “tried to obliterate” through various means, including the study of Irish. Admittedly, the literal crime referenced in this passage is not colonialism. It is rather the murder of Samuel Childs. But it is clear that Haines is not guilty of murdering anyone and that the study of Irish would hardly be a good way of obliterating the Childs murder even if he were the killer. (This scene is equivocal in that it does not literally represent anything that Haines actually said. However, it does link Haines with feelings of this sort.)
In parallel with this, shame can also result from one’s sense of in-group suffering. Just as a member of a dominant group (e.g., the English) may be affected by the suffering of the dominated out-group (e.g., the Irish), so too may a member of a dominated group be affected by the suffering of his or her own (dominated) in-group. The shame of a dominant group toward a dominated group tends to be associated with compassion or celebratory admiration, if sometimes of a patronizing sort (as in the case of Haines). The shame of a dominated group member for the suffering of the dominated group includes these feelings but seems more likely to involve anger as well. All three emotions—compassion, admiration, and anger—may be intensified when the individual feels he or she has been complicit with the dominant group (e.g., through mimeticism). We see a case of this sort when Bloom recalls the mistreatment of Jews throughout the world (12.1467–12.1474) and finds himself filled with very uncharacteristic anger. The anger is unsurprising in terms of the preceding points, since we know Bloom feels at least some shame for his inadequate Jewishness, which even includes moments of anti-Semitism. We may understand his anger as provoked by the mistreatment of fellow identity-group members, but also by the social conditions that drove him to a degree of complicity, however limited and indirect.
Finally, as the brevity of Bloom’s anger and the complexity of his other feelings suggest, emotions and attitudes regarding identity are fluctuating. There is only partial stability in our identity categorizations and our attitudes toward those categorizations. For example, feeling category-based shame does not in any way preclude feeling category-based pride for the same category. Moreover, a self-conscious rejection of out-group disgust does not mean one never feels shame provoked by that disgust. The human mind is not a logical machine that establishes some principle and then follows it out inflexibly. There are always contradictory influences, ambivalences, changing configurations of ideas and emotions. It would clearly be wrong to say that Bloom is anti-Semitic. Nonetheless, he does think of or respond to Reuben J. Dodd as “a dirty Jew.” Even a moment later, he might reject that characterization, but it has enough cognitive and (especially) affective force to produce that momentary response and judgment.
We have already noted some important features of practical identity. However, it is worth briefly sketching a few key points before going on individual identity. Practical identity is, first of all, a set of idiolectal principles and preferences that organize and motivate behavior. (Idiolectal principles are principles that exist only in individual minds and that may take slightly—or greatly—different forms from person to person.) To continue with the case of language, these include, for example, the rules governing the formation of regular plurals or past tense in English or Irish. Clearly, these principles, though idiolectal, require coordination if they are to allow social interaction. For example, if you and I are going to understand one another, then our rules for plural formation cannot be significantly different.
On the other hand, there are two ways in which practical identities may differ within a group. The first, already noted, is in distributed cognition. In many cases—particularly in institutionally-based, cooperative labor—the practical identities of two or more people may be complementary rather than identical. Cases of collective labor can give rise to pride or shame in precisely the same ways that individual labor can do so. It seems that a great deal of categorial pride (pride concerning the in-group) is tacitly imagined to involve collective cooperation, though it rarely does involve this. An example may be found in the pride of entirely unathletic University of Connecticut faculty that “we” won a basketball tournament. Conversely, one way of responding to the shame associated with a categorial identity is to deny one’s involvement in supposedly collective activities. This may be one reason why college students are more likely to say “we” in referring to a college sports team when it is victorious, but to switch to “they” when the team is defeated (Ortony, Clore, and Collins 236).
The other main area in which there is a discrepancy in practical identities may be found in idiosyncrasies that remain largely consistent with broad social trends. Consider, for example, productive morphology. English speakers are aware that it is possible to form new verbs by prefixing “dis” and new adjectives by prefixing “un.” However, it seems likely that very few of us produce novel verbs and adjectives in this way. Rather, we confine ourselves to cases that are familiar—technically, cases for which we have a specific entry in our mental lexicons, as opposed to cases where we need to infer the meaning “compositionally” (i.e., by reference to the components). Thus all of us use words such as “dislodge” and “uncomfortable.” In both cases, these are familiar words, words that have a place in semantic memory. We do not have to infer their meanings by connecting “dis” with “lodge” or “un” with “comfortable.” In contrast, Stephen (thus Joyce) will sometimes give us novel words, such as “dislove.” We then need to infer the meaning of this word compositionally. A similar point could be made about clothing. Common social practices may dictate that men wear a waistcoat. They may also narrowly and explicitly dictate certain colors on certain occasions (e.g., black at funerals). However, in ordinary circumstances, there may be a range of expected colors with no strict social requirements. Perhaps most people wear dark colors. But it is perfectly comprehensible—if also idiosyncratic— that Buck wears a waistcoat that is primrose colored.
Put differently, we may make a (somewhat loose) distinction between general principles and ordinary usage curves. A range of options in speech or clothing may be allowed by common or shared principles of practical identity. However, only some of those options are routinely utilized in actual social behavior. The principles define the range of possibilities. The distribution curves represent ordinary usage or action, socially expected routines within the range of (principle-defined) possibilities.
Both style and styling may be understood in these terms. As a first approximation, we may say that style involves systematically departing from ordinary usage curves—often by expanding the expressive or descriptive capacities of the relevant practice (e.g., by adding “dislove” to our lexicon). The purpose of style is commonly to represent some target more adequately (e.g., a person’s feeling of dislove, rather than dislike or hate). Styling, too, departs from ordinary usage curves, but for the purpose of managing personal impression formation—that is, fostering particular responses and evaluations in other people. This often involves imitating the principles and usage curves associated with another identity group (e.g., shifting from middle-class Dublin Hiberno-English to a more British English or to the dialect of Mother Grogan, in Buck’s case). In the case of Buck’s mimeticism, such styling is insincere and socially deleterious. But it is important to note that impression management need not be either. Indeed, styling may converge with the development of style.
As noted at the outset, Ulysses raises questions not only about group identity and practical identity, but also about individual identity. Specifically, both Bloom and Stephen question the degree to which they are now (in 1904) the same as they were in the past. There are several aspects to this issue, bearing on both cognitive and affective topics. Fundamentally, the question of identity is one of continuity within change. Generally, we have two criteria for determining whether or not something is the same as it was. These are the extent and rapidity of change. We tend to accept that there is identity across limited, incremental change, but not across extensive, rapid change. The issue of identity can arise in relation to objects, including artifacts. Thus we may ask whether an extensively reconstructed house is still the same house as it was before. But the crucial cases clearly do not concern things. They concern people.
Here, it is helpful to take up a commonplace distinction among the body, the mind, and the soul. For present purposes, it does not matter whether or not one accepts the separate existence of these entities in reality. The point is that they are conceptually distinct. As such, they are open to distinct evaluation and thus distinct emotional responses. Since minds and bodies clearly change, the soul is the principle that defines continuity of the individual self. The idea of the soul clearly has many functions in ordinary life. In Ulysses, however, souls turn up prominently in one context only—death. Death is the most sudden and radical change in a person’s status. The soul is what allows continuity of self to extend beyond death. This continuity can be and is commonly invoked by people in relation to their own future. However, neither Stephen nor Bloom spends much time reflecting on his own immortal soul. Indeed, both appear to reject the idea self-consciously—particularly Bloom. However, this does not prevent either of them from envisioning the souls of the dead—specifically, the souls of lost attachment figures. Thus Stephen spends the day haunted by the specter of his dead mother, and Bloom is visited by the spirits of his father, his grandfather, and his son. Of course, to some extent, this is a metaphorical representation of recollection. Stephen does not really believe his mother is visiting him from the grave. He is, rather, recalling and reimagining her views of his apostasy. But even so, he in effect resurrects her in simulation, imagining continuity in her thoughts and attitudes—in effect, taking up the presumption of a continuing essence or soul, even if only for purposes of the simulation.
This all suggests that one prominent reason personal identity haunts Bloom and Stephen is that personal identity is a key issue in grief. On the other hand, given this relation to grief, it may seem strange that Stephen’s and Bloom’s reflections on personal identity concern Stephen and Bloom themselves, not Stephen’s mother or Bloom’s father. But these reflections do not treat an eternal essence. Rather, they treat the mind. Again, a key aspect of personal identity is practical identity. This includes not only skills, but also routines, customary ways of acting. In addition, the mind includes complexes of emotions or motivations. Among humans, perhaps the most significant of these emotions are interpersonal—and, of the interpersonal emotions, perhaps the most consequential is attachment. One’s ordinary routines are usually bound up with one’s relation to attachment figures. Even when separated, our attachment objects are a source of support and reassurance. Thus, in “Circe,” the ghost of Stephen’s mother reminds him, “Who had pity for you when you were sad among the strangers?” In addition, one’s emotional life is generally centered on attachment figures. In consequence, there are few more radical changes in one’s mental life than the loss of an attachment figure. That loss disrupts the organization of one’s emotional responses and expectations and the routines of one’s practical identity in central ways. Thus one of the things Joyce suggests is that grief, attachment, and personal identity are deeply bound up with one another.
Once we recognize this, we can extend it readily to experiences other than death. Bloom is concerned with the death of his father and his son. But those are not the central preoccupation of his day. Rather, that central preoccupation is Molly’s infidelity. The beginning of her affair with Boylan marks, for Bloom, another attachment loss, even if one not so severe as death. Moreover, this loss follows closely on the departure of his daughter, potentially leaving Bloom with no available attachment figures and, consequently, a deep sense of grief. This is at least one important reason why Bloom reflects on his own personal identity.
Of course, such attachment-based reflections are not a matter of abstract, philosophical speculation. They bear, rather, on the imagined trajectory of one’s life, which is to say, one’s emplotment of one’s life or one’s “life narrative” (a “coherent account that we create for ourselves as we progress through life” [Baddeley, “Autobiographical” 143]). We may feel shame or pride in our degree of success or accomplishment in a current condition. However, we judge ourselves, not only “synchronically,” but also “diachronically,” as part of a history of aspirations and possibilities. The pain of Bloom’s loss of Molly is not simply a matter of what is occurring on that day. It results from the change in hopes and expectations that Molly’s affair manifests. Thus he recalls her acceptance of his proposal and their first time making love. In an explicit reflection on his change in personal identity, he thinks, “Kissed, she kissed me./Me. And me now.” He remembers how once Molly wanted to kiss only him. It is the falling off from what he once was that distresses him. That falling off is a cause of personal, rather than social, shame; as such, it has nothing to do with his categorial identity. The same point turns up in his many reminiscences of what he planned to do, but never could—whether square the circle or run for political office. The feeling of shame that occurs here is connected with a feeling of despair. It is well represented in Bloom’s recurring image of the stream of life (e.g., 5.563–5.564, 8.95, 8.176), a stream that is constantly changing and carrying away possibilities. Those possibilities are linked with lost selves.
Finally, there is the body. Clearly, one’s body is a crucial part of one’s sense of self. It too is inseparable from feelings of shame and pride. Enduring shame in the body has two primary sources—disfigurement or disability and sexuality. In “Nausicaa,” we will see that Gerty suffers from shame of both sorts. Note that these are not merely a matter of categories. They are, first of all, a matter of direct, perceptual experience (e.g., Gerty’s experience of disgust at her body’s discharges), as well as practical identity and trajectory of life possibilities (such as those that significantly change for Gerty after her accident).
“Proteus” is deeply concerned with identity. As to national identity, the episode includes Stephen’s extended reflection on his meeting with the Irish nationalist revolutionary Kevin Egan in France (3.216–3.264). This relation is significant as it suggests some ways in which Stephen’s (and perhaps Joyce’s) anticolonialist commitments were more sincere than the nationalists who “have forgotten Kevin Egan.” No less suggestively, Stephen associates remembering Egan with “Remembering … Sion.” This anticipates the connection between Ireland and Israel, developed in “Aeolus.” But it also recalls Stephen’s resistance to anti-Semitism earlier, prominently in his exchange with Deasy. There, Stephen suggests that class, not religion or ethnicity, is the key factor in social analysis—“A merchant … is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not?”
Despite these concerns, the episode is more fully involved with the topic of personal identity. This is unsurprising in that it takes its name from the Greek sea god who could change his physical form, thus his bodily identity. Indeed, in keeping with Proteus, the episode suggests what will become a recurring concern in the novel—that the self is far less uniform or singular than we commonly imagine.6 The point appears early on, when Stephen begins to address himself as another person. “By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile,” he thinks, responding, “Yes, I must.” In doing this, he in effect divides himself into distinct cognitive routines or complexes of processes. One set of processes concerns Stephen’s long-term imaginations and prudential modulation of immediate impulses by reference to those imaginations and their associated emotional responses. (The associated emotional responses may concern, for example, Stephen’s aversion at the thought of being unable to buy food—or, worse still, drink.) The other set involves the immediate impulses, spontaneous emotional responses to current conditions. These spontaneous responses may be self-indulgent, certainly (as we see from his drunkenness later in the novel), but also selfless (as we see from his no less evident generosity—in paying for the brothel [15.3529–15.3560] or lending money to Corley [16.194–16.196]). The last point is worth stressing because Joyce’s division here is not a moral one. The wastrel Stephen is not necessarily less moral than the prudent Stephen.
Stephen implicitly models these complexes on different types of person. The first, who advises “go easy with that money,” is a wise elder who has learned from perhaps bitter experience. The second is an impetuous youth, explicitly “young.” Moreover, the division is set up as an interior dialogue between two distinct people, even involving conversational markers.7 Thus Prudent Stephen’s comment to Wastrel Stephen begins by signaling a change in conversational topic—“By the way,” a transition phrase that one would hardly imagine is necessary with oneself. The first sentence ends not only with the addressee’s youth, but with a complex sense of shame. Stephen can consider himself a potentially great poet, a Satanic rebel with Lucifer’s “lightning of the intellect,” and, at the same time, a shameful “imbecile.” The tone of the self-admonishment gives some sense of the pride; the concluding insult gives some sense of the shame. The brief internal dialogue ends when Stephen shifts from the speaker of the first sentence to its addressee. Instead of saying, “You must,” he accepts the judgment of the first sentence and says, “Yes, I must.”
Elsewhere, the division in Stephen is not that between impulse and prudent reflection. It is, rather, between past and present—though it retains an element of self-judgment and shame, initially sexual shame. Thus Stephen chides himself, “You were awfully holy, weren’t you?” citing cases—“You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow … might lift her clothes.” Here he is not only like an elder advising a youth, he is even more accusatory and mocking than in the former case. This particular claim is marked by another shift, this time one from English to Italian as Stephen thinks, “O, si certo!” (“Oh, yes certainly!”). It is almost as if a third person is entering into the conversation, one who shares the knowledge of the other two. The multiplicity of self-address becomes still stranger when Stephen mockingly tells himself to “Sell your soul,” then shifts to another voice, now an observer who is also Stephen, but who does not seem to share knowledge with the other Stephens. Specifically, he pleads, “More tell me, more still!!” This presumably represents Stephen before he explicitly recalls the events being recounted, but while he is trying to recall them.
The shame of these self-recriminations is palpable. In a subsequent paragraph, it is extended from sexuality to Stephen’s earlier self-aggrandizement as a poet, including his ludicrous plan to write a series of books with letters of the alphabet for titles (3.139). Later, Stephen takes up this self-division over his literary achievements, but extends it to the present. Thus we find a lack of unity in the self even in relation to current task engagement. He is writing some sort of love poem. Clearly, the poem has included some standard poetical imagery in which the speaker takes the beloved’s hand to lead her somewhere. But Stephen quickly realizes he is conforming to poetic conventions without any clear purpose in this poem. Thus he addresses himself, “Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil?” Here, he refers to himself in the first person, but this soon changes as he begins to mock his own efforts. The mysterious “she” of the poem leads him to ask, “What she?” and to ridicule the pretense—“The virgin at Hodges Figgis’ window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were going to write.” Thus even in an ongoing activity, at the moment of writing, there is a division in the self, a disunity between action and monitoring. As these cases suggest, it is a division that is essential to shame.
Before going on, we should note that these points are consistent with current views in psychology and neuroscience. Doris writes that “personality should be conceived of as fragmented—an evaluatively disintegrated association of situation-specific local traits.” Thus, “For a given person, the dispositions operative in one situation may have an evaluative status very different from those manifested in another situation; evaluatively inconsistent dispositions may ‘cohabitate’ in a single personality” (25). DeSteno and Valdesolo comment similarly that “we can all exhibit a range of ‘character types.’” In consequence, “where people end up at any one moment often depends on the context” (233–234, emphasis in the original). Larsen’s arguments suggest this is unsurprising in neurological terms, given the “babble of primitive voices as neural structures, physiological organs, and hormones announce their separate needs” (29). Similarly, Gazzaniga contends that “the brain has all kinds of local consciousness systems … with different systems competing to make it to the surface to win the prize of conscious recognition” (66).8
In addition to indicating the disunity of the single self, “Proteus” also indicates there is not as radical a difference across selves as we are likely to imagine. A clear indication of this comes just after the passage where Stephen is mocking his youthful self for shameful sexuality. Specifically, Stephen comes to modulate his own self-criticism, in effect criticizing himself as critic of himself. Having condemned his sexual desires, Stephen now reflects, “What else were they invented for?”9 This tolerant exculpation—which applies not only to himself, but to all people—adds one more voice to the chorus that we have seen constitutes Stephen at this moment. But it also connects Stephen’s own feelings and judgments with such diverse characters as Father Conmee and Molly Bloom. Without discussing the topic or otherwise communicating the idea among themselves, they all think much the same thought in the course of the day. It may not be unexpected that Father Conmee would think “of that tyrannous incontinence,” but it may be less predictable that he would continue by considering such “incontinence” as “needed however for man’s race on earth,” apparently linking it with “the ways of God.” Similarly, but with her characteristic straightforwardness and clarity, Molly reflects “what else were we given all those desires for Id like to know.” In each case, we see the possibility of shame (or its correlated disgust) replaced, at least temporarily, by the same thought regarding the naturalness—or even divine sanction—of sexual desire. Though this is only one strand of Stephen’s personal identity, it is a strand he shares with otherwise unrelated people.
This is far from the only case of this sort. Stephen appears to express in his poem the thought, “I am lonely here.” In any case, the end of his poem is linked with this loneliness and feeling of being “Sad too.” Bloom’s form of self-expression comes, not in a poem, but in his letter to Martha Clifford. He ends that letter with the same rather self-dramatizing gesture that marked Stephen’s reflections at the end of his poem—“I feel so sad today…. So lonely.” This sense of sorrowful loneliness and its relevance to self-expression are presumably common to many people. Other instances are less expected. For example, going outside of “Proteus,” we find that Stephen and Bloom perceive the morning light in the same, apparently distinctive way. Thus Stephen senses “warm running sunlight” while, for Bloom, “warm sunlight came running.”
A more significant case involves Stephen’s reflections on Ireland and Bloom’s reflections on Palestine. As we saw in the previous chapter, Stephen considers the standard Irish nationalist representation of Ireland as an old woman, rejuvenated by the sacrifices of her (nationalist) “children.” Stephen rejects this nationalist myth, seeing Ireland itself as aged and infertile—or rather seeing real people (here an old woman, pouring “milk, not hers”) who will hardly be rejuvenated by the spilled blood of martyrs. Early in “Calypso” (the first Bloom episode, as “Telemachus” is the first Stephen episode) there is a parallel passage in which Bloom reflects on Palestine. Specifically, Bloom has just been thinking about Palestine and particularly the Zionist movement and the plan to establish a planters’ colony. He has envisioned the fertility of the land (“Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa”) and the possible profits. However, his comment, “No, not like that,” in effect rejects the Zionist imagination of the land. The suggestion is that this nationalist idea is just as wrong as the romanticized idea given in travel books. (His phrase here recalls his slightly earlier reflection related to a travel book, “Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read.”) Specifically, he imagines that the land is “barren,” as infertile as an old woman. Just as Stephen reflects on the old woman of Ireland not producing breast milk, Bloom—in his less delicate manner—thinks of her “grey sunken cunt.” In sum, they both reconsider nationalist personifications, developing them to the same critical conclusion, and with closely related imagery.
There are presumably many reasons for the convergence of different individuals’ feelings (sad and lonely), perceptions (warm running sunlight), reflections (what were desires invented for?), and imaginations (if the nation is an old woman, then …). These include common cognitive processing patterns, common emotional architecture, shared political and social discourses, common physical and social experiences, as well as other factors. Indeed, a key aspect here is precisely the internal diversity of selves. The more different Stephen is within himself, the more likely there will be at least some overlap with differences in Bloom. In any case, the key point for our purposes is that Joyce’s psychological realism challenges common views of (putatively internally consistent and deeply distinctive) personal identity, as it simultaneously challenges common ideas of (putatively internally consistent and deeply distinctive) social identity.